DCI James Hardy Series Boxset

by Jay Gill

  “You really should make time to do this more often. The girls are growing up so fast,” said Mum.

  “I’m doing my best. It’s not the sort of job where you can simply clock in and out. We’re only a few minutes down the road. You’re always welcome to visit us more often,” I said, regretting the way it sounded as soon as it came out of my mouth.

  “I know; it was same for your father. Having the girls here has brought home how important it is to make time. Popping in to see you sounds nice, but you’ve got your lives and you’re all so busy,” said Mum. “You know I prefer it when you visit us. I feel we’re intruding. And anyway, it’s good for the girls to come visit their grandparents. I don’t need to say it, but once this craziness is all over, we’re here whenever you need us, and your father and I are always available to babysit. For us that would be a treat.”

  “Why exactly would I need a babysitter?” I knew immediately I’d been set up, and I’d walked right into the real topic she wished to discuss. Mum could see I knew it, but she pressed on regardless; I’d just been hooked like a fish.

  “Hear me out,” she said. “You’re still a young man and you have your father’s good looks. Those girls need to feel secure. They need a proper family unit.” She looked out of the window. “Helena would want you to move on, and from what I can see you’re doing everything but moving on. You’re burying your head in the sand, James Hardy.”

  “So what do you want me to do? Do you want me to join a dating website or start clubbing? Most of the women I meet are either married, prostitutes or in the morgue.”

  “You’re being ridiculous, Jamie. You know exactly what I’m saying. The answer is right under your nose and you know it, so cut that out.”

  “For God’s sake, not that again. She’s Helena’s best friend. It wouldn’t be right. And she’s still married. And it would be inappropriate. And we’re friends. And if it doesn’t work out, it would spoil what we have.”

  “So you have thought about it?”

  “No. You have no idea how I feel, and you know I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Sounds like you have thought about it and you’re making excuses to avoid telling her how you feel.”

  Monica came into the kitchen then, followed by Alice, Faith and Dad, who was now pretending to be a child-eating monster.

  “Raaargh,” he groaned hungrily, crooking his fingers at the girls, who screamed giddily and ran behind their grandmother.

  I used that as my opportunity to escape and made a beeline for the back garden. I spent the time until dinner watching the girls on the trampoline and chatting to Dad. I could feel Mum’s eyes on me through the kitchen window. Dad quickly figured Mum had had one of her talks with me, but he didn’t bring it up. I was grateful for that.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Sebastian was a treat for her birthday. Nothing more. She was sure of that. She’d been good for twenty-three months and eleven days. But who was counting? And as a birthday treat, Sebastian didn’t really count. Putting him to one side, she’d kept the urges at bay.

  Those thoughts were always at the back of her mind, and she was always looking at men, and sometimes women, and weighing up their potential. But the fact remained she hadn’t acted on any of those impulses, and for that she could be rightly proud.

  The newly updated and more secure members’ website was interesting her tonight. She was assured that security was now state of the art. No one could get in uninvited – but that’s what he’d said last time. She had informed the programmer that should there be another lapse in security and some uninvited visitor did show up, he’d be a programmer who used his nose for typing, while his fingers sat in a jar on his desk.

  No members knew of the forum’s security breach, and no harm appeared to have been done. Apparently, it was a kid who had hacked the site. He probably hadn’t known what he was looking at, and as soon as he realised there was no valuable data to be had he’d moved on. After some time had passed the kid would be visited; no point making it too easy for the police to join the dots. Of course, it wouldn’t be her visiting the boy; not her sort of thing at all. She’d review the member profiles and find the right candidate to visit the boy, at once killing two birds with one stone. It might even be worth making it look like an accident, though she always considered that wasteful.

  As usual, the members were hopeful that tonight The Mentor might post an update. She was still undecided. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, her mother always said. Miss you, Mum. I’m going to come visit very soon, I promise.

  Catching up on what members had been up to was both tiresome and informative. Their bragging and petty squabbles were tiresome. Yet, from time to time, a story of a narrow escape or new technique or aberration piqued her interest. At the moment, Simon Baker intrigued her. He was a rising star for what he’d achieved, and the publicity surrounding him was exquisite. He’d certainly caught the public’s interest, and as far as she was aware the police still had no clue as to his identity. He wasn’t like the rest of the group, however, and the question of whether he would stay quiet about the group, should he be captured, bothered her.

  He seemed educated and obviously had a high IQ. He clearly also had family money behind him. He showed some interest in the conquests of others, but he wasn’t obsessed like some. And unlike some, he didn’t just visit the members’ site for kicks. He seemed more interested in technical detail. He asked lots of questions. Maybe she was wrong, but it was as though his need to kill was nothing more than a job of work he felt compelled to do. It seemed that he was genuinely only a member to learn from those with experience. Whether or not he’d continue to kill after his work was completed would depend entirely on whether he acquired a taste for it. Like many skills you work for, once you have acquired them you feel empowered, and then they become very difficult to give up.

  “Shut up, Sebastian!” she shouted.

  The constant thudding, scraping, banging, clattering and moaning was really starting to grate. She’d have to do something about Sebastian sooner rather than later. The only decision was how to end things with him. His neediness had quickly become a turn-off, and so she’d offered to tie him up, knowing he’d jump at the chance of going all Fifty Shades of Grey. Now he was completely helpless, gagged, strapped and tied to a chair. He’d been quiet for a while, when he’d thought her leaving him was a tease. Then, after an hour, his muffled calling had turned first angry and insistent and then to pleading.

  Sebastian had caught her attention when she’d read of his naughty exploits at King’s College University. Several young women had been abducted and their bodies never found. Unlike the police, it hadn’t taken her long to track down the perpetrator. After all, his telltale personality traits were obvious to her. Once she’d tracked him down, she’d promised herself she’d have him when the time was right.

  Eventually she had decided her birthday was the right time. So here he was, trussed up like a Christmas turkey all ready for the oven, which was on. She’d put the incinerator on a few hours ago in preparation. Now her only decision was how to finish things with poor little Sebastian. Having opened a fresh bottle of wine and poured herself a glass, she began weighing up the pros and cons. After all, these decisions were all part of the pleasure and not to be rushed.

  Depending on how it was used, a knife could be quick and it could also be slow. The down side was always the mess, and seeing as how he was in her house, she didn’t want mess. Who wants to be cleaning on their birthday?

  A cord or rope was too masculine and way too much effort and exertion. A tourniquet helped, but always seemed clumsy. We’ll call that a maybe.

  Once again, a gun would create mess, and, really, where was the fun?

  A syringe full of something nasty was wimping out, as far as she was concerned, and should really only be used as a way of completing the job in a hurry or when one needed to hide the act.

  A bag over the head? “Now that is an interesting optio
n,” she said to herself. “Haven’t done that in a while. Similar effect to rope or cord or noose but without the exertion. There’s the added benefit, once everything is set up, of being able to sit and watch. And with only a little audience participation, the performance could last for hours. And no bloody mess to clean up at the end. Perfect.” She raised her glass in a small cheers.

  Decision made, she decided she would pop into the other room and give Sebastian an update. It seemed the right thing to do. Yes, she’d break the news to him. After all, it only seemed fair; secrets can lead to all sorts of misunderstandings. She’d explain to him what would happen and why.

  Before any of that happened, though, she was going to have a bath so she could feel completely relaxed before his final performance. She doubted he’d take it well, but then again, they never did.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  I was finishing a salad lunch at Rosie’s Tea Shop when two black Mercedes 4x4s pulled up outside. They weren’t hiding; they wanted me to know they were there. A suited man in his thirties got out of the lead vehicle. He looked left and right and then directly at me. He was a wiry man with bad teeth. He patted his side to show me he was armed.

  The back window of the same Mercedes opened to reveal a man who was probably in his late sixties. He, too, looked at me and, with a warm smile, beckoned me over.

  Rosie came and stood beside me. She put a hand on my shoulder and topped up my pot of tea with hot water. “You know they’ll get a parking ticket if they stay there too long,” she said with a chuckle. Nothing got past Rosie. She could see what was going on but had known me long enough not to ask. Rosie was simply checking I was okay and in her own way asking whether she could be of assistance.

  “Thank you, Rosie. Sadly, I don’t think they’re planning on stopping for tea and, lovely as it is, I’m going to have to leave the rest of my lunch. Would you please call Rayner and let him know I am in a meeting with Papa? He’ll know who you mean.”

  My legs were feeling heavy as I walked towards the Mercedes. I looked back and could see Rosie was already on the phone calling Rayner. I stood on the pavement for a moment and looked left and right. The street was packed with shoppers and was the last place I wanted any sort of firearms incident. I looked up, spotted the CCTV cameras and looked directly into each one.

  The wiry man with bad teeth opened the back door of the lead Mercedes and reluctantly I got in and sat beside Papa. Mr Bad Teeth jumped in the front. The Mercedes pulled away, and I looked back at Rosie, who was standing in the doorway of her cafe.

  Mr Bad Teeth leaned over from his front seat and frisked me. Once he was satisfied I wasn’t armed, he looked at Papa and nodded.

  “Forgive me, Detective Hardy. I apologise if this all seems a little theatrical.” Papa gestured with his hands as if all this was beyond his control. “My name is Papa Kastrati. It is vital I speak with you,” he continued.

  “Perhaps we could head over to Scotland Yard and talk there?’ I suggested. “I would certainly feel more comfortable.”

  Mr Bad Teeth in the front passenger seat sniggered. Papa looked at me as though I had made a childish statement. “We will not talk now. I dislike being away from my little restaurant, but I made this trip for you, as it is important.”

  Papa did not speak again for the remaining journey. He simply looked out of his window and occasionally sighed. The restaurant was called Caesar’s, just as Chambers had told me. We pulled up outside and Papa was helped down from his seat by one of his men. He then made his own way to the back of the restaurant. I watched as Papa settled himself. Through the windows at the front of the restaurant, I watched as Mr Bad Teeth and the other men drove away.

  I looked around the small and very traditional-looking restaurant. I imagined the menu was much the same, with traditional food made the traditional way. On terracotta floor tiles sat rows of wooden booths with leather seats. A tall, lean, muscular man was attending to the bar area. Behind him I noticed a postcard pinned to the wooden frame of a large mirror. I recognised it to be a black double-headed eagle on a red background, the Albanian flag. Behind Papa at the far end of the restaurant was a door that went through to a white-tiled kitchen. The door closed behind me, and I was alone in the restaurant with Papa and the tall man behind the bar.

  Papa lit a cigar and beckoned me over. “Come, come. Please take a seat. We have lots to discuss. I am having a coffee. Would you like something? Actually, no. I insist you must have something. After all, you are my guest.”

  “A coffee, thank you,” I said. I could feel my phone vibrating in my jacket, and the buzzing was loud in the empty restaurant.

  “Please answer your phone while Orel brings us our coffee,” said Papa.

  I took out my phone. The large display showed it was Rayner. Papa held out his hand to take the phone. I figured I felt safer knowing Papa was happy to speak to Rayner, so I handed it over.

  “Detective Rayner, this is Papa. You may not remember, but we briefly spoke many years ago. I am here with your friend and colleague Detective Hardy.”

  Papa raised his eyebrows and smiled as Rayner spelled out, in ways only Rayner could, what would happen should I be in any way harmed. Eventually Papa spoke again. “I understand your concerns. I assure you no harm will come to your friend. He is here with me at my restaurant, and I would appreciate it if we were given some time to talk.”

  Papa handed me the phone and I put it up to my ear. “I’ll see you later,” I told Rayner. “No point driving all the way over here. So far Papa has been a polite and generous host. If perhaps a little unconventional with his invitation.”

  I put the phone on the table and Orel placed a strong black coffee in front of me. Papa closed his eyes and sipped his coffee.

  “Good,” said Papa. He looked at the bar man beside us. “Orel here is a good friend. He will make sure we are not disturbed while we talk.”

  Orel looked at Papa and then at me and returned to the bar. My gut told me Orel was a little more than just the restaurant’s barman.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  He seemed so ordinary as he told me of his life growing up in Albania and the struggles of day-to-day life. He was a man in later life telling me a version of his life story.

  I could see the pain in his eyes as he told me of how he had married young and quickly lost his beautiful young wife and only child, a son, in a fire at a rented flat. That pain, he told me, had changed the course of his life. I listened and for a time forgot just how dangerous this man was.

  He never mentioned his crimes; he wasn’t looking for forgiveness. Perhaps he didn’t see what he had done to survive, or what he continued to do to acquire so much power, wealth and influence, as something in need of forgiveness. I got the feeling he believed he had simply followed the predetermined path of his life one step at a time. He believed he had no more control over his direction, he told me, than a feather would have if caught in a hurricane.

  “But we have the ability to make choices,” I said finally. “A feather does not.”

  Papa stroked his fine grey hair with his cigar hand and leaned forward. “So, we come to choices,” he said thoughtfully. “I often considered life to be the hurricane and the feather to be our choices. Do you believe we are truly able to make choices without the hurricane of life influencing their direction?”

  “Every day we make choices. Some big, some small,” I said. “Some days we make one important choice and some days we make lots of small choices. All those choices accumulate. Day after day. Month after month. Year after year. At the end of a life, we are the sum of those choices.”

  Papa narrowed his eyes and glanced over my shoulder at Orel. “They told me you were clever, a thinker. That you make the tough choices most men will not make,” said Papa.

  “I don’t need a philosophy lesson. Just tell me why I am here,” I said. I knew now Papa was learning as much about me as I thought I was learning about him. For all I knew, the saga of his growing up was a figme
nt of his imagination, a story he’d created to simply give him time to observe me, to read me. I felt a little like I was sitting before him because that was his choice. I was ashamed to admit it to myself, but at that moment I felt like the feather and he was the hurricane. I knew he saw that realisation in my eyes. He didn’t need to say anything; he could see in my face he had made his point.

  “Why am I here?” I repeated.

  After a long silence Papa said, “There are men who can be bought. There are those who can be coerced. Some men need only to be threatened. And some men, well, let’s just say they are obstacles that have to be removed. You, I fear, are an obstacle. Your need to find answers and your need for justice make you one of those I cannot buy or coerce.”

  “Are you threatening me?” I asked. I looked over my shoulder and saw Orel at the bar checking stock levels. I was now feeling a little jumpy and wanted to keep one eye on the barman.

  “Goodness me, no. I am merely stating a fact. I want you to understand my situation before we discuss our predicament.”

  “And what is our predicament exactly?”

  “I have become aware of a case you are working on. From what I hear, there have sadly been several untimely deaths. Young women. Some of these women may in the past have had some association with one of my businesses.”

  I said nothing and Papa continued.

  “We are looking into the circumstances surrounding these incidents. I assure you it will be dealt with. And when it comes to justice, it will be swift and final. I simply need you to give my organisation a little time to deal with the matter.”

  “What about Klaus Seidel?” I decided to take a chance and see whether the cases were connected.

  “Klaus? We’re looking into that too.”

  He was lying. He knew Klaus but didn’t know he was dead. He had also just admitted that he wasn’t surprised someone in his organisation would have likely killed Klaus. I pressed him further. “Someone in your organisation is out of control. He’s killed several young women plus Klaus and his bodyguard, and you’re asking me to look the other way?” I asked in disbelief.